


Habit

by viceroyvonmutini



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-08 23:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4324617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceroyvonmutini/pseuds/viceroyvonmutini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never take advice from your elders. Never listen to that advice. And never, ever act upon it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Incorrigible

**Author's Note:**

> So i saw this general tumblr prompt: Person B getting down on one knee to propose. Unfortunately, they are so horribly nervous that they freeze in that position. Person A becomes concerned that Person B dropped something important, getting on their knees too, and crawling around to try and find what B “lost”. Whether Person B goes along with it is up to you
> 
> and i thought...well, how can I not? Especially will all this angst creeping around. Think happy thoughts.

Shaw’s fidgeting. That’s the first thing Root notices.

Shaw doesn’t fidget. She’s not a fidgeter. She hates unnecessary movement; she stands stock-still, motions sharp like a hawk. She hates it when Root taps restless on her knee-not even Shaw’s knee but her own knee-eying the movement like it personally offends her.

Shaw doesn’t fidget.

It’s not an obvious fidget. In fact, you wouldn’t even notice it unless you knew what you were looking for.

Shaw’s feet were not planted. That was the first thing Root noticed as her eyes did the obligatory sweep up Shaw’s form when she entered her apartment. One was normal enough: firmly planted, inline with her shoulder in her ordinary stance providing a firm base from which to act but the other was casual. Pointed to the side: slack.

Root’s eyes continued their journey. One hand-her left- hung as usual by her side but Root caught the clenched fist, the way her thumb pressed hard on the edge of her forefinger. The other was in her pocket. Her gun hand, stowed away in her pocket buried deep.

By now Root was…confused. No. Just…curious. Sameen Shaw did not relax. Her relaxing was every other sane person's tension: back ramrod straight feet shoulder width apart and a gun always in reach, scanning the room for any threats from corner to corner. That was Shaw. It was habit.

Shaw’s eyes, when Root finally reached them, were distant. They stared at the wall far in the distance, stared at nothing in particular before snapping to Root as attentive as ever.

Root put down her laptop on the coffee table.

Shaw was fidgeting. Or doing her approximation of it.

‘Hello Sweetie. Have a nice trip?’

At that Shaw quirked her lips.

‘You missed a rocket launcher.’

Root stood, coming up level with Shaw.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she replied lightly, allowing herself to lean in and leave a soft peck on Shaw’s lips.

Shaw didn’t scowl.

That was…well that was roughly a third. The first Root remembered fondly: her and Sameen sharing Persian New Year that was, in Sameen’s words, ‘absolutely not a date.’ She had quietly thanked Shaw anyway with a soft peck and Shaw had let her; she didn’t even pull away.

The second was less of a happy recollection but still stored in Root’s most treasured memories. At the time it was insignificant: the two were in the middle of a mission, surround on all sides. They had to split up and Root had pecked her softly before running off. It was only later after the chaos, after ensuring Sameen had made it out alive, that Root began to dwell. It was, of course, never brought up again.

So this was a third. That was Root’s second clue. Nevertheless she knew this memory would also be stored. Anything Sameen Shaw related was stored and filed. Every minute reaction, everything coaxed and prodded from the woman with nothing but love was watched with unending fascination.

Root moved on.

She pulled back slightly. Shaw did not do the same.

‘Is everything okay Sameen?’

The tone was light but the undercurrent of concern was there.

 _Ha. Okay? Ha_. Shaw stared at Root. Really stared. Nothing was okay. Nothing was okay since Harold had…done something monumentally stupid _._

Honestly? The mission had been finished hours ago. Before lunch even. 10:39am to be precise. The mission had ended that exact moment. Shaw knew that. But she hadn’t come home. _Why_ hadn’t she come home?

Firstly, Shaw reasoned, Root would still be asleep. Root tended to sleep late. That was the first reason. That reason, however, was deemed unsuitable as it implied some sort of concern for whether Root slept the proper amount. Shaw had long ago accepted her rather strong protective streak towards the woman but there was a very clear and distinct difference between concern for the woman’s life and the woman’s sleeping habits.

Instead, Shaw reasoned, she had not returned because she needed to think. This was in fact the truth: she did need to think. Because Harold had been an utter _idiot._

She had…delayed.

She hadn’t been okay since 10:39 that morning. 10:39. The time was seared onto her brain. It shouldn’t be: it was a small insignificant number in the corner of Harold’s computer screen, but it had been the only thing she would allow her eyes to fix on as Harold had demonstrated _complete buffoonery_ , watching as it slowly flickered into 10:40.

Shaw was a being of equilibrium. She valued her equilibrium: everything was in careful balance. Harold had given her a box and she had needed time to think. She was not in equilibrium. Still wasn’t. Well she might have been, but in a different state of equilibrium that hadn’t quite been adjusted to yet. She was getting to that.

Harold had handed her a box: a small one that fit snug in her palm. She didn’t know what had possessed him to give it to her, but he had.

 

_‘A gift, Ms. Shaw.’_

_Shaw looked at the small black box like it burned a hole in her hand._

_‘What?’ she spat out, but it lacked venom._

_‘A gift. I think it was time I gave you this.’_

_Shaw didn’t reply, studying the box that would have been relatively innocuous in any other hand but hers. She looked up and caught Harold’s eye. He looked expectant waiting for her to open it-which she would absolutely not do-and worse: he looked earnest._

_Shaw looked away, eyes fixing on the monitor behind him focusing on the numbers: 10:39._

_Harold, realizing he would not get a verbal response, coughed slightly before continuing._

_‘I have…we…it was time. You and Ms. Groves are somewhat involved as I understand it. This is not pressure Ms. Shaw do not mistake my motives: it is for when the time is right.’_

_‘Finch.’_

_Shaw could feel each muscle tight like a coil. Cramping. Tension strung her from head to toe dangling her from its thread._

_‘Please Ms. Shaw. It is a gift. You may never decide to use it but it is something close to my heart. It would mean more than you know for Ms. Groves-and yourself- to have it in your possession.’_

_The numbers flickered over: 10:40._

_Shaw looked at Finch face hard but eyes a swarm of confusion. At least, mused Harold, he had not yet been punched._

_‘Why?’_

_‘I believe you know why Ms. Shaw. If you do not, I suggest you wait until you do before acting with this item.’_

_‘I’m never going to act with it,’ hissed Shaw._

_‘Be that as it may: I should like you to have it.’_

_‘Why?’_

_She didn’t want this. She didn’t like the way it weighed her down. Anchoring her to something she didn’t like to dwell on._

_Finch shifted, adjusting his glasses slightly._

_‘You and Ms. Groves are close and Samantha is…a dear friend. I care for her deeply. You might not understand the effect she has on you Ms. Shaw, but you can surely see your own effect on her.’_

_‘She doesn’t affect me.’_

_Harold tilted his head._

_‘Indeed. Regardless, you make her happy: give her something to live for other than the Intelligence she serves. This is not pressure Ms. Shaw. This is…my blessing.’_

_‘Even if…I did use this,’ Shaw looked down in something akin to disgust at the thought, ‘I couldn’t take this.’_

_‘I want you to have it.’_

_‘It’s yours.’_

_‘It was mine. I give it to you.’_

_‘She’s still alive Finch.’_

_It was Finch’s turn to look away._

_‘Yes. I know. And I can never see her again. It has sat dusting in a drawer for longer than I care to admit. Put it to use if you so desire: I should think of no other person I would rather give it to.’_

It was now 4:09pm. 16:09. It had taken Shaw this long to make her way to the apartment. Their apartment. Originally hers, but Root had taken residence and Shaw had yet to kick her out after almost a year.

A year. Longer if you counted before. A year with Root. Exclusively. Shaw was…Shaw thought she would be bored, tired of Root and her games but instead she found some form of peace in the way Root was always there, always knew what to do and their complete lack of need for verbal communication.

So Shaw had taken Harold’s words to heart.

And here she was, standing in front of Root, absolutely shitting herself.

That was an overstatement: her palms were sweaty. At most.

Sameen Shaw was not afraid: not for herself. This wasn’t about her. That was the thing about Root: she found herself making allowances for another in her life, bowing to compromise often to suit Root much more than it would suit her own needs. She did things she would never do because it pleased Root: because she got that look that Shaw liked to stare at and she still couldn’t work out why.

So she wanted to do this right.

The fact that she was actually doing this was ridiculous in the first place but if she was going to do it she was going to do it in a way Root would want.

She’d even asked her pet super-robot for permission.

 

(That had been one of Shaw’s more awkward conversations talking to a street camera in the middle of the park:

‘Okay…fuck this-fuck Harold this is fucking stupid. Look. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Do you understand?’

The security camera blinked once.

‘Great.’

Shaw didn’t speak for a while but eventually looked back up again, fingers twisting the box in her pocket.

‘You still there?’

A clear blink signaled Her presence and Shaw continued.

‘Right. Well. Can I marry her then?’

A blink.

‘Great. Thanks.’

Shaw turned away, looking at the few people staring at her with more than a few questions in their eyes.

‘Well that was fucking ridiculous.’)

 

She was going to do this right.

‘Root.’

Root tilted her head in question.

Shaw took a step back before looking down at the floor and back up at Root, calculating the worth of this next action.

‘Sameen?’

Fuck it.

Shaw got down on one knee.

 

Well. This was weird.

Root looked down at her strangely. Shaw was kneeling. Shaw didn’t kneel to anyone. Why was she kneeling, and why was she refusing to look up at her, eyes fixed to the floor?

‘Uh…Sam?’

Shaw kept staring at the grain in the wooden floor. She was doing this. Why was she doing this? When had this seemed like a good idea? Why was she trapping herself to Root, a metaphorical ball and chain of commitment? Because of a few words Harold had said?

By this point Root was just confused and trying to work out what was happening. The Machine was silent in her ear, failing to providing any clues as to the origin of Shaw’s current mood.

Root crouched down to bring herself level with Shaw.

‘You okay down there?’ she cooed, and Shaw’s eyes finally fixed on her face.

‘Stand up.’

It was an order. Harsh. Hurried. Hard. Root was almost taken aback, but complied.

‘Sam I don’t-‘

‘Root.’

Root didn’t continue. If Shaw needed time, Root would give her time: that was something Root would gladly give.

Harold had said she shouldn’t use this until she knew Root’s effect-power more like- over her.

Yeah. She knew it. She fucking hated it but how could she not. Root was habit, Root was an exception to the rule, Root was part of her life now like bacteria that never quite goes away, multiplying and multiplying and inserting itself into your life until before you know it it’s a part of your system.

But the good type of bacteria. Like in yoghurt or something. The kind you need. The kind Shaw needed. She…she needed Root as much as Root needed her because life without Root was like a life without yoghurt.

Root loved her similes.

‘Finch gave me a gift.’

Root raised her eyebrows.

‘That’s…what is it?’

‘I’m getting to that,’ scolded Shaw and Root had the decency to look sheepish.

‘Sorry.’

‘He said some stuff.’

A pause.

‘Look I wanted to make this good, like something you would want or you imagined or something. Finch made it sound important and I guess you would want a whole speech or lead up but I’m shit at this stuff.’

Fuck it.

Shaw pulled her right hand out of her coat pocket, finally.

‘Here.’

Shaw thrust the small black box forward leaving it in her outstretched palm as Root looked at it, and then looked at Shaw. And then looked at the box. And then looked at Shaw. And then looked at the box. And then looked-this was getting ridiculous.

‘Root,’ said Shaw, snapping Root out of it causing her eyes to fix on the box.

‘Are you going to open it?’ asked Root.

Shaw sighed as if it were the biggest inconvenience in the world, but she did so with the same care she treated Root’s wounds.

The box opened to reveal a deep purple velveteen lining, and perched in the soft cushioning sat a simple silver ring. It was plain: polished sterling silver and a singular small diamond.

(Shaw had of course opened the box the moment she had made up her mind. If she was going to do to this, she was going to do this right.)

Root’s eyes fixed on the ring.

‘Oh.’

Shaw raised an eyebrow.

‘Oh?’

Root’s eyes drifted to Shaw’s face as if they couldn’t bear to tear themselves away from the ring.

‘I…I was expecting a watch or something.’

‘Why would Finch give you a watch?’

‘Why would Finch give you an engagement ring?’

Ah yes. There it was. That phrase: engagement ring. It held its own unique gravity in the situation they currently found themselves and even Shaw could feel the way it weighed between them.

Shaw looked at the engagement ring in her hand then back to Root, whose eyes had long since returned to the jewelry.

‘Do you want it?’

‘Do I…want it?’

‘Yes Root. That’s what I said.’

‘To have?’

‘No I want you to give it to John. Yes to have.’

This time Root looked at Shaw. Directly at Shaw like she was complex code and Root had to understand her: figure her out. Shaw didn’t flinch away.

‘To wear?’

Shaw held the witty retort on her tongue-she was trying to do things right-and instead replied:

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Harold’s.’

‘He gave it to me. To give to you when I wanted.’

‘When…you want this?’

‘What’s with you and stupid questions?’

‘Are you sure?’

‘No.’

Root smiled softly. There was that look that Shaw couldn’t help but stare at; no matter how many times she committed it to memory it was never enough.

‘Yes.’

‘What?’

Root chuckled.

‘The answer to your question.’

‘Will you marry me?’

Root beamed. Actually beamed, teeth catching on her lips and Shaw…yeah. Yeah. Harold was right. She knew.

‘Yes Sameen. That question.’

‘Oh.’

The two looked at each other for a long while before Shaw began to feel the pain in her knee.

‘Well take it then,’ she muttered.

Root raised a teasing eyebrow: that smile on her face was never going away. Not in the near future anyway. Shaw didn’t want it to.

‘I think you’re meant to slide it onto my finger Sameen.’

‘I’m already down on one knee and it fucking hurts.’

‘You’re always so thoughtful,’ doted Root, reaching tentatively for the ring with her right hand, holding it between her fingers like it was made of glass.

‘Is it my size?’

Shaw rolled her eyes as she stood up, dusting herself off.

‘Yes Root: it’s in your size.’

‘Just checking.’

Root slid it onto her ring finger. It felt weird: heavy and out of place. Constant.

Shaw watched, both their gazes lingering on the stone.

‘I’ll have to take it off for missions.’

‘I know.’

‘I won’t be able to wear it much.’

‘You can wear it enough.’

Root locked eyes with Shaw.

‘Can it be the only thing I wear?’ asked Root, voice sickly sweet.

 

It was Shaw who made her wear it the next morning as they strode into the subway. Root didn’t complain much. At all in fact. She didn’t show it off but they worked with an observant bunch.

John caught sight of it first, eying the suspiciously placed ring before shooting a pointed look at Shaw. Shaw shrugged and went back to cleaning her gun. John smiled.

Fusco was a little slower: made it all the way to the afternoon before spotting it and was barely able to keep his mouth shut.

‘Wait Cocoa Puffs and Trigger Happy? Is that safe?’

‘I don’t know Lionel; why don’t you ask Shaw and find out?’ advised John.

Fusco shifted.

‘Pretend I never asked.’

Root saved Harold for last. Shaw waited by the exit, watching from afar as Root thanked him with a wide grin and he sent her off with an encouraging smile. As Root returned to Shaw’s side to make their way home Finch smiled at Shaw, giving her a nod of approval.

Shaw raised an eyebrow but let a small smirk creep onto her face before she fell in step behind Root.

Behind…well, her fiancée.


	2. Inveterate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In light of the recent episodes and the numerous mentions of happy endings and marriages, I decided to take on an impossible challenge. Because that's what I do. I hate myself.
> 
> So really this is a bit of indulgence. I'm not sure if this works. At all. But right about now we all need a little happy ending for these two, so there we are. 
> 
> This was originally much much much longer. It went on to the after party, and first and last dances...but I cut it short for here, because I felt it was just getting too long, and too tedious and a little too indulgent on my part. So here you are. Finally. Root and Shaw get hitched. They all live happily ever after. In Hawaii. With Bear. Drinking. Cocktails.

Shaw was seriously questioning things right about now.

It wasn’t so much a crisis of faith, but more a crisis of what the fuck was she doing. She shifted her weight slightly, feeling the comforting nudge of the gun tucked in the waistband of her jeans.

It wasn’t like she was lukewarm about this thing, but then that was the problem. Not the problem, but irritating. Definitely getting on her nerves. She was getting on her own nerves, and it was all Root’s fault.

She had arranged all this. She had done this. She had no one to blame but herself. She wasn’t regretting it, obviously, but she was seriously considering taking Bear and hightailing it out of here.

The fact that in this ‘fleeing’ scenario Root was coming with her was something she wasn’t too keen on analyzing.

The church was empty save for her, Bear, and her two guests. The place gave her the creeps. She tugged at her loose shirtsleeves, peaking out from the cuffs of her leather jacket. John shifted on his feet behind her; she could feel his nerves. She didn’t dare turn around, not even slightly to catch him in the corner of her eye and comment on his shuffling. She kept her eyes straight ahead, just over the shoulder of the vicar who seemed the only one of them completely at ease. Except maybe Bear, who was a dog and had no idea what was going on.

 

_‘And what kind of service were you thinking of, Miss…?’_

_The vicar was leading her down the central aisle of the old church. Online it hadn’t looked so goddamn big, but now she was here it was dawning on her that this place was a religious landmark. Cavernous and full of candles and stone statues and giant stain-glass windows and had it’s own vicar. Priest. Archdiocese. Shaw wasn’t particularly in the know about these types of things. But the place had come…highly recommended._

_‘A normal one.’ She didn’t know there were different services. It’s not like she ever really thought about a traditional Christian wedding before._

_They reached the front of the church. Shaw walked around a bit in the space, boots echoing on the cold stone floor._

_'_ _This where you stand?’_

_The vicar looked amused, but Shaw steadfastly ignored the man. She had sworn not to lose her temper. She had sworn she was going to do this perfectly, at every turn, and not be forced to call the authorities on another injured citizen._

_‘We can perform the standard service, but if you would like to add a personal flair - I like to make sure I can accommodate: this is your day after all, Miss…?’_

_Shaw looked up at the pulpit. ‘Do you have security cameras here?’ She didn’t turn around; she remained as ignorant to any possible surprise the vicar might have shown._

_‘Of course. This is New York.’_

_‘In here?’_

_‘Yes.’_

_'You allow dogs?’_

_‘Not usually in the building itself,’ Shaw turned around, ‘unless needed for medical reasons.’_

_‘Fine. When can you do this?’_

_‘Well I can fit you in for a run through probably-‘_

_‘No run through. Just the service.’ She was getting exasperated. This was taking far longer than she wanted: she’d been off coms. for too long for the others not to be suspicious._

_‘I…’ The priest was going to argue, but one look at Shaw’s face and he simply bowed his head. ‘Two weeks from now. Wednesday at around 10:30am. Will that suit?’_

_'Fine.’ Shaw stalked past him, eager to get out._

_'How many guest should I expect, Miss…?’_

_‘I don’t know. 4. Including the dog.’ Shaw paused. ‘5.’ She paused. ‘Max 7.’_

_'Only…’ Shaw shot him a look. ‘Of course. If you could arrive with the rings and the best man at least half an hour in advance, and I can run through what I have planned. I presume you’re leaving it up to me?’_

_‘Yes.’_

_‘Are there any other requests you have, Miss…?’_

_Shaw was already half way to the exit._

_‘Make it traditional.’_

 

The vicar conducting the ceremony had briefed Shaw on what he had planned and surprisingly, she’d been satisfied with what he’d come up with. She’d wanted Bear as her best man, but John had looked offended that it wasn’t him so she compromised. Fusco was stood next to his son on the front pew, Bear panting at his feet.

‘Nervous Shaw?’

‘You’re the one who’s fidgeting, John.’

‘I can see you tensing from here.’ Shaw immediately willed herself to relax, at least marginally.

‘It’s cold.’

John chuckled, but said nothing further. She knew he would put his hand on her shoulder if he could, but his own hands were clasped tightly in front of him, white with pressure.

‘Hey Fusco,’ called Shaw, still looking straight ahead, ‘you shape up well in a suit.’

‘Yeah yeah, keep your eyes forward and don’t run away at the sight of ole’ cocoa puffs back there.’ His son was grinning next to him. Fusco wasn’t going to bring him, but the invite had said a plus one was welcome and Shaw had given him a look close to something that said ‘you can ignore the gesture if you want but I’m doing this for you.’ It had been his son who’d picked his suit out.

 

_‘What are these?’_

_Shaw didn’t answer, handing out small white envelopes to everyone in the subway. She handed one to John and Fusco, who looked equally confused; Finch, sat at his desk, took it without a word; Bear looked at it on the floor in front of him, panting away and completely oblivious to what was going on._

_As the three men tore into their letters, Shaw went and left a little white envelope on Root’s bed in the subway, placing it with distinctive care in the middle of her lilac pillow. She guessed it was kind of weird that she was formally inviting Root to her own wedding, but they hadn’t actually talked about this at any length. In fact, Root had been surprisingly non-vocal about the whole thing, and the few times they had spoken Root had specified on no uncertain terms that the whole thing was up to Shaw to organize, which was a little unfair._

_She’d had a little help though. She held up an envelope to Harold’s webcam, face impassive as she ignored the slowly understanding faces that were now looking at her like she’d just announced she was going vegan. She waited for the little light to flash in acknowledgment of a message received before finally, reluctantly, turning to her audience._

_‘So. Finally getting hitched huh?’ said Fusco, breaking the silence._

_Shaw said nothing, but shot him a glare that had little effect as the man studied his invite with curiosity._

_‘Have you asked Root about this?’ asked John._

_Shaw shrugged. ‘She knows.’_

_'Hey, we can bring a plus one?’ asked Fusco, actually reading the invite._

_‘I don’t know Fusco, can you?’ Shaw shot back._

_He ignored her. ‘Are you sure?’_

_‘Bring who you want,’ dismissed Shaw. ‘You got a girlfriend you gonna bring, Reese?’_

_John squinted at her, searching for the insincerity in her remark. Although she was teasing, it seemed like she actually meant it. This whole thing was like stepping into the Twilight Zone._

_Bear had finally decided to eat his invite. Shaw took that as an RSVP yes._

_‘Iris is out of town at a conference that day,’ responded John eventually. Shaw grunted in understanding. She wasn’t about to move the whole thing for John’s new heartthrob. It had been hard enough mustering up the momentum to arrange it all for this date._

_Finch had remained noticeably silent._

_‘And you Finch?’_

_‘Of course I will be attending, Ms. Shaw.’ He studied the glossy invite: white, with handwritten inked calligraphy. Shaw had painstakingly done it herself, not that she would tell anyone that. She didn’t trust some idiot printer to handle the Persian of her name all that well. If she was doing this, she was doing it right._

_‘Good. You should walk Root down the aisle.’_

_Finch’s eyes widened. ‘Wh-well. Ms. Shaw, shouldn’t that be up to…Ms. Groves? To decide.’_

_Shaw shrugged, before making her way to the subway exit. ‘She’ll ask you. It’s not like she can get her Robot Master to do it.’_

 

Shaw had always hated the wedding march. The funeral one was so much better. But she’d said traditional and the priest had delivered, organist and all, and so grit her teeth against the grating sound of the tune that signified Root’s grand entrance.

She still wasn’t turning around, but she could hear the doors of the church open and dual click of shoes as Finch (she presumed) held Root’s arm as they walked. Shaw had no idea what she looked like. In fact, she’d barely seen her at all this month. Not like she missed her in a sappy way, but their only contact had been passing quips in the subway between missions. Despite the closeness of the wedding, and the Machine knowing that, She hadn’t let up on the numbers one bit: doubled them, if Shaw wasn’t imagining things.

 

_She rested her face in her hands, sat at her computer. She’d been trawling through sites – on her day off, she’d be quick to remind anyone who asked – trying to find a decent fucking caterer. No luck._

_‘Hey, Circuit Breaker. I know you helped out with the venue, but I could really use a caterer right about now.’_

_Shaw hadn’t wanted to use the Machine. It was weird. She didn’t like speaking to thin air, or security cameras, or taking hints from a disembodied Artificial Super Intelligence. But the Machine knew Root, and Root would… Root would want Her input, and value it. So that meant Shaw had to as well. Even if she didn’t like it._

_Still, the oversized computer had found the venue, so She wasn’t all that useless. This time, however, She apparently wasn’t willing to give any more great ideas._

_‘Fine.’ Shaw ground her jaw. ’Fine.’_

_Shaw wasn’t getting stressed about this whole thing she just needed to get it done so she could move on. Root wasn’t going to act so someone had to, otherwise what the hell was the point of proposing in the first place? And the only reason she’d done that is because Root – she knew, even if Root said she only wanted what Shaw wanted and no more – was really just a Texan girl with dreams of a perfect white wedding. Shaw was trying her damned best here, but she’d planned her goddamn funeral in more detail than a fucking wedding. She’d never even opened, even dreamed to go within 10 feet of a bridal magazine, until about 4 weeks ago._

_She wasn’t even sure Root was all that keen on the whole thing, considering Root hadn’t even brought up the idea of a wedding at all. Sure, she wore the ring like it was her prized possession (and had, unknown to Shaw, requested that all future identities be engaged, and the Machine had, Root imagined, cheerfully and immediately obliged) and seemed to beam with pride. And okay, it’s not like their sex had suffered: if anything Root was more insistent and/or upped her sex drive, not that Shaw was complaining at all. But Shaw had never even dreamed of any kind of ceremony for herself. This was all for Root. All of it. And she knew – though she’d never say it out loud – all of it was because Root would settle for what Shaw wanted at the expense of her own desires. And that was kind of sweet, romantic even - not that Shaw ever used the words ‘Root’ and ‘romantic’ in the same sentence – but seemed to Shaw like a trade-off for Root. It didn’t matter if Root really was truly happy with anything Shaw could give her, Shaw seemed intent on trying for all the stuff Root was sure Shaw couldn’t give, and happy to forgo as such._

_She couldn’t do stable, emotional relationship, but she could stand in a church for a couple of hours. That she could do._

_She wasn’t wearing a dress though._

_‘Hey Wire Brain, does Root want a dress?’_

_This time, the laptop hummed and whirred as the AI brought up a website, and then brought to the front of a screen a simple white dress, shoes and other accessories all in separate windows. Shaw quickly scanned it._

_‘Great. Send it all to her in the correct size.’_

 

So Shaw hadn’t actually really seen what Root was wearing. She’d trusted the Machine knew what Root would want.

As Root came to stand beside her, Shaw let her eyes quickly flicker to Root’s form, before returning to the front. Root was wearing the dress, which Shaw took as a good sign. She was also _beaming_ , practically radiating and thrumming beside her, which was really throwing Shaw off and it took every ounce of her CIA/Marines training to resist the urge to betray her own need to just get this fucking thing over with.

Finch came to stand behind Root, and seemed to be smiling almost as much as Root. Really. She worked with a bunch of emotional sops. It was embarrassing.

‘Hello sweetie.’ Root barely managed to get the words out. She was not, under any circumstances, going to lose her composure. She was not going to cry, she was not going to grin uncontrollably; she was not going to do anything that she wouldn’t normally do. She was completely in control. She’d also instructed the Machine to whisper historical facts regarding the church in order to distract her.

It wasn’t working. In fact, the Machine kept stopping, taking long seconds in which Root was suddenly left with the crushing realization that she was stood next to Sameen Shaw, about to get _married._ In a _ceremony_. And this time, she wasn’t the runaway bride.

‘Root.’

Shaw was pretty sure neither of them were really paying any attention to what the vicar was saying. Shaw was largely not really focusing on anything at all, because if she began to focus she began to become aware of how fucking long this whole thing was taking. Thankfully, the priest had included zero hymns and zero long, needless sermons, which, as they were instructed to face each other and lock hands, Shaw considered a good move.

Root’s hands were cold. So were Shaw’s. Root was doing that thing where she looked into Shaw’s soul, and Shaw was glaring defiantly back at her. Part of Shaw suspected something might change during this thing, like Root would look at her differently and Shaw would get all awkward and something would shift, but so far they had both fallen back on the same defense mechanisms, so it was all going pretty well, Shaw thought.

‘I like the dress.’

‘So do I.’

There was a shuffle, and John produced the rings. Shaw swore she heard a sniffle and she was absolutely going to shoot Fusco in the gut if he was crying.

Root indicated to the exit at the back of the church with her head. The camera was facing the ceremony.

‘She appreciates that.’

Shaw grunted in acknowledgement. The priest was getting in her personal space and she felt herself tense in Root’s grasp as his hand brushed her. Root smirked. Shaw was going to punch her.

Shaw didn’t write the vows. Didn’t really care what they were. Mindlessly repeated them. She wondered if Root could tell there wasn’t really any significance behind this whole thing, or if she were just caught up in it all. It didn’t matter either way.

‘You may now kiss the bride.’

Shaw shot him a look, and Root allowed herself a chuckle. ‘It’s alright Sameen, we can save it for later.’

John was absolutely never going to let her live this down, as Root practically dragged her up to the altar and toward the signing of the marriage certificate. The others were all invited to follow, including Bear. Root squeezed her hand as the two took turns at signing. In place of parents, each one of the assembled guests signed the sheet: Bear left an inky paw print. The vicar looked less than pleased at the prospect of cleaning up the ink now spilt on the church floor.

‘Is that it?’ asked Shaw to the vicar. He bowed his head in affirmation.

‘Great.’ Shaw didn’t move. Root leant her head on Shaw’s shoulder, which remained there for about 3 seconds before she shrugged it off violently.

Root tilted her head. ‘Looks like playtime’s over. We have new number Harry.’

Shaw couldn’t help the relief that washed through her and made a mental note never again to complain about their workload. Finch led the way out, with Root and Shaw bringing up the rear without a word to the vicar, who looked suitably bemused at the whole event.

‘Thank you,’ muttered Root, still clutching Shaw’s hand. The ring felt weird.

‘The ring is annoying.’

‘You can take it off just as soon as we’re out of here,’ placated Root. She sounded like a well-fed kitten, and Shaw could hear the smile in her voice. It was sincere.

Shaw grunted non-committedly. She’d probably get used to it anyway.


End file.
